Where The World Drops Off
by Quashie
Summary: If someone with a fiery personality was considered a pistol, then he's nothing short of a rocket launcher.


Looking at him now, his bloodied fingers are wrapped tightly around a small cross while he continues whispering empty words to a God he'll never see face to face, already knowing that no amount of prayer could attest to the weight of his countless transgressions. As his shoulders rise and fall heavily with the adrenaline that has yet to subside, the smell of gun powder still lingering in his hair and his second skin made of leather... I don't see the eyes flickering with rage, flecks of hatred toward mankind (but mostly himself) in those cold, calculating orbs. Nor do I see the scowl that has long since become as permanent as those lips themselves, dusted a faint pink and always so cracked...

What I see is _conviction_ and _pain_... and perhaps most of all, _fear_. Fear that he won't succeed, that his life will end before his goal is met. Contradiction wrapped in beautiful contradiction, lie after lie after lie, he's so caught up in the decisions nobody should have to make. He's launched himself into making these choices regardless, willing himself to carry on with the intent of being nothing short of the best. _"It's the only way."_ Another lie, one that he could comprehend and still does.

Sometimes I think he has a death wish, that he's too much of a coward to take his own life. Thus, he struts those narrow hips and cons anyone pitiful enough to cross his path, seducing and commanding others to do what little dirty work he can't afford to do for himself. What he wants, he gets. You could have all of your senses dulled to mere nothingness and still feel that aura emanating from him. And I, the only possession from his past that he selfishly clings to tighter than that bloody cross, am so royally fucked because of it. As if that thought shouldn't be sickening enough, I wouldn't have it any other way.

I continue looking at him and see the blond bombshell that pulled me out from under my cozy little rock and forced me, intentionally or otherwise, to give a damn about _something_ for a change. Coincidentally, I care more for the man than he cares about himself. The ugly burn marks that mar the left side of his face and shoulder are evidence of that. My heart had nearly stopped when I got the call; his pathetic voice cracking and fading, telling me breathlessly that he had gone and blown himself up _intentionally_. As with any of his reckless shenanigans, _"it's the only way"_ had been his excuse.

I like to think that if he was a politician, that would be his slogan. Though I never think much on that, since he doesn't have the patience for politics. Or hardly any patience at all, for that matter. If a satisfactory result isn't immediate, he uses sheer force to make it so. Thus, he easily overtook those lower mafia thugs, forcing his way into a conveniently higher up position. It was ideal, really. Advising the boss of some local branch of organized crime, he held a most prominent position while still having the time to focus on his main objective; beating his lifelong rival just once. This morbid obsession makes me sick for reasons I won't even bother to explain.

Looking at him now as he's looming over the corpse of the prick that had tried to oppose him, I feel the sheer power coursing through him, fueling that mind of his that never seems to slow down; always thinking, always calculating, all to prove something not even to himself, but to a ghost, an image of the past that he admired for so long and faded all too quickly.

That was when he transformed, I noted. When that image faded from our pathetic lives. He went from the boy that was almost angelic with his sense of innocence and morality, to the deadly serious man- no, _monster_ standing before me now, unpredictable and utterly terrifying. If someone with a fiery personality was considered a pistol, then he's nothing short of a rocket launcher. And I love him for it.

I'm not religious but that man before me, he's my God, my salvation, and my heaven. But all the same, he's my Satan, my damnation, and my hell... Contradiction wrapped in beautiful contradiction. And now I'm waiting... waiting for my heaven and hell to implode with the sheer force of everything he keeps inside. Waiting for the apocalypse that will shatter my world, waiting for my Mu.

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**A/N:** OKAY so. Uh... yeah. Apparently, I had this saved as a draft on Facebook for months but the thing is... I don't remember writing it, heh. I haven't corrected spelling or grammatical errors, so if there are any, don't hesitate to tell me.


End file.
